


One Ring to See the Past

by TheGlassFloor



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings, M/M, Mind Screw, The One Ring - Freeform, no permanent deaths, some violence but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGlassFloor/pseuds/TheGlassFloor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The magic of the One Ring worked the same for Bilbo as it did for Smeagol and Isildur: it gave them the power to disappear, to vanish from sight.  But what if it did more than that for Frodo?  What if it sent him away, out of his mind, out of his body...</p><p>...and into the mind and body of his Uncle Bilbo, over sixty years ago?</p><p>Thus begins Frodo's journey across time to discover the secrets of Bilbo's adventure with the dwarves...and why he told Frodo so little about three of them in particular.</p><p>(On hiatus until further notice.  I would like to finish this story, some time.  We'll see...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

_"Long years have passed.  You did not have the cares you carry now."_

_-  Arwen Undómiel_

 

* * *

 

 

“Good evening, little masters!”  The innkeeper smiles jovially down at the four small, rain-soaked newcomers who just stepped inside of The Prancing Pony.  “If you’re seeking accommodation, we got some nice, cozy, hobbit-sized rooms available.  Mister…”

“Underhill.  My name’s Underhill.  We’re friends of Gandalf the Grey,” Frodo says, indicating himself and his three friends: Sam, Merry, and Pippin.  “Can you tell him we’ve arrived?”

“Gandalf?”  The innkeeper frowns, struggling to recall the person belonging to that name.  “Gandalf...Oh!  Yes, I remember.  Elderly chap, big grey beard, pointy hat.”

Frodo gives a small smile and a nod.

The innkeeper shakes his head.  “Not seen him for six months.”

Frodo’s face falls.  He turns to Sam, whose face shows the same dismay that he feels himself.  Gandalf told them he would be waiting for them at the inn of The Prancing Pony in the village of Bree, didn’t he?  Now they’re here, so why isn’t Gandalf?

“What do we do now?” Sam asks.

Not knowing what else to do, the four hobbits request a table and order some food and ale for themselves.  Merry and Pippin seem to settle in comfortably--they’re always so carefree--but Frodo’s worries remain.  To think that he felt relieved when he first spotted the sign for The Prancing Pony, while they were outside trudging through the muddy streets.  Never mind that they were in an unfamiliar place, that it was dark, and rainy, that they were surrounded by big folk...and, oh yes, that the Black Riders were out there, the agents of the Dark Lord Sauron, determined to pursue and capture Frodo Baggins and seize the Ring from his possession--the One Ring of Power--and return it to their master.  Despite all of that, just knowing that they’d be reunited with Gandalf was enough to lift his spirits.  There wasn’t much to fear when you had a wizard with magic powers in your company, was there?

Now that relief is gone, evaporated, and fear and uncertainty have taken its place again.

Frodo glances over at Sam sitting beside him, and Sam glances back, in between bites of bread and cheese.  There’s nothing particularly encouraging in his expression, but even still, just having Sam there gives Frodo a feeling of...gratitude.  Yes, gratitude, and it momentarily distracts him from the doubt and fear.  He hopes he can hold on to that distracting feeling and make it last.

Sam has been there since...as long as Frodo can remember, really.  Ever since they were very small, they’ve always been the best of friends.  It certainly meant a lot when they were younger, but it means even more now.  Sam didn’t have to come along on this journey, potentially facing all kinds of dangers along the way.  It was his own choice.  To anyone else it may have seemed like Gandalf all but forced him to come, but Frodo knows better than that--Sam would have come anyway.

He nearly went into a panic when he thought he’d lost Frodo in Farmer Maggot’s field.  “Don’t you leave him, Samwise Gamgee.”  He remembers Sam repeating Gandalf’s words once they were together again, then adding his own: “And I don’t mean to.”  Frodo tried to laugh it off, but he still couldn’t help being touched by Sam’s heartfelt dedication.  Something about that moment, those few simple words…

It was a moment Frodo felt was worth remembering, and appreciating.

He tries giving Sam a faint half-smile, hoping it might reassure him, even if he doesn’t feel too sure of anything himself.  Sam deserves that at least, Frodo reasons.

“Sam...he’ll be here,” Frodo tells him.  “He’ll come.”

Merry returns from the bar with a large mug in his hand, causing Pippin’s eyes to practically bulge out of their sockets.

“What’s that?”

“This, my friend, is a pint.”

“It comes in pints?  I’m getting one.”

“You got a whole half already!” Sam barks, but too late, Pippin is already off and running up to the bar, the silly Took that he is.

Sam gently nudges Frodo, directing his attention to a mysterious hooded patron seated in a shadowy corner of the inn.  “That fellow’s done nothing but stare at you since we arrived.”

Frodo notices the Man he’s talking about, but takes care not to stare back.  The inn is full of intimidating, grimy-looking people as it is, but at least up until now it didn’t seem like any of them were paying the hobbits any mind.  Frodo feels his pulse quicken.

“Excuse me,” he says to the innkeeper, stopping him as he passes their table, midway through carrying provisions to another customer.  He leans down to the hobbit’s level to listen.

“That Man in the corner...who is he?”

The innkeeper glances over at the darkened corner, then back at Frodo.  “He’s one of them Rangers.  They’re dangerous folk, they are, wandering the Wilds.  What his right name is, I’ve never heard, but round here he’s known as Strider.”

“Strider,” Frodo repeats as the innkeeper walks away.

A strange sort of drowsiness seems to overcome him as he absentmindedly takes the Ring out of his pocket and fiddles with it between his fingers.  It’s happened before, the first time the hobbits were approached by one of the Black Riders while hiding from him beneath the roots of a tree by the side of the road.  That’s a memory Frodo would rather not visit.

 _“Baggins…”_ whispers a miniscule voice, seemingly coming from the Ring itself.

Luckily Sam was there to stop him from actually putting it on, something Gandalf warned him never to do.  The Ring’s magic would make him disappear from sight, but Sauron’s servants would be drawn to its power, making the Ring and Frodo that much easier to find.

 _“Baggins…”_ the Ring whispers again.  And again.

And again.

 _“Baggins!”_  This time its whisper is elevated almost to a hiss.

“Baggins?  Sure, I know a Baggins.”

Frodo snaps out of his trance.  His eyes are wide open.  That wasn’t the Ring saying his name.  It was a person.

“He’s over there.  Frodo Baggins.”  Pippin points to him from the bar, apparently having joined the conversation of some Men seated there.  “He’s my second cousin, once removed on his mother’s side…”

Fool!  Gandalf told them to forget the name Baggins, to use “Underhill” instead.  How quickly that detail has slipped out of Pippin’s mind.

Baggins was the name revealed to Sauron by Gollum.  Baggins is the name the Black Riders are looking for!

“Pippin!”  Frodo darts out of his chair and runs to the bar, grabbing Pippin by the shoulder and startling him, making him spill some of the ale from his mug.  Frodo feels the bottom of his foot come in contact with someone’s shoe, causing him to lose his balance and stumble backward.  The Ring goes flying out of his hand and up into the air as he lands on his back.  He reaches up to grasp it out of the air, and it slips down onto one of his fingers.

 

* * *

 

“Baggins!”

He no longer feels wooden floorboards beneath his body--they’ve been replaced by cold, hard stone.  Where before he just saw the ceiling of the inn, he seems to be staring up at jagged rock formations stretching upward into infinite darkness.  All the people are gone, the din of voices supplanted by the shrieking of just one: a spindly, pale, malnourished-looking creature leaping into view.

“Thiiief!  Baggiiins!”

Frodo gets a glimpse of the creature’s large, watery-blue eyes before he turns and runs off in another direction.  Did the creature not see him?  Or was he just not interested or concerned with some hobbit lying alone on the floor of a deserted cave?

It must be the invisibility granted by the Ring’s power, Frodo decides as he climbs to his feet.  The very air around him seems to shift and ripple, distorting his surroundings in a way that reminds him of observing an object beneath a water’s surface.  His Uncle Bilbo described the experience to him once, years ago, back when the Ring was still in his possession.  He never mentioned that it could transport its wearer to another location, though.  Neither did Gandalf.  Is this some new power that the Ring is exhibiting?  Why did it bring him here, of all places?  Where is “here”, anyway?

Most puzzling of all, who is this strange creature, and why is he shouting Frodo’s last name?

He follows the creature down a narrow passageway towards a less dim part of the cave.  Perhaps he’ll inadvertently lead the way out.  Frodo would prefer not to have to stay in such a dark, desolate place.

“Wait!  My precious, waaaiiit!  Gollum!  Gollum!”

That sound...that noise that the creature just made in its throat...it couldn’t be…?

The creature doubles back, moving out of the way of several people running by along an intersecting passageway.  Frodo only catches brief glimpses of most of them, but then one of them stops--one who is much taller than all the rest.  Even with his back turned to Frodo’s view, there is no mistaking that grey robe and that pointy hat.

It’s Gandalf!

 _He’s_ here too?

Frodo stops trying to understand what’s going on, he’s just glad to see Gandalf, even if it’s not at The Prancing Pony like they agreed.  Gandalf can’t see _him_ , though, and Frodo may only have mere seconds to follow the wizard to wherever he’s running off to, which is easier said than done with the creature blocking his path.

Gandalf moves off, and the passageway is deserted again--mostly, anyway.  Frodo steps forward quietly towards the creature, raises his sword, and--

 _Sword?_  When did he get a sword?

He vaguely recalls having a sword in his hand when he first stood up after appearing in the cave.  Did he find it on the floor and pick it up, and just not pay it any real notice until now?  What is this Magic Ring doing to his mind?

He’ll have a lot of questions for Gandalf, that’s for sure.  He’ll probably also take a scolding for wearing the Ring in the first place, not that it’s his fault, it was an accident after all…

Never mind all that, he’ll never even catch up to Gandalf if he doesn’t first get past this creature...Gollum, of course it’s Gollum.  He looks just like Bilbo described, now that Frodo thinks about it.  So he escaped from the enemy, did he?

He holds the sword higher, preparing to bring it down on the miserable wretch.  If only Bilbo had done as much when he had the chance, Frodo wouldn’t be in the situation he’s in now, running for his life from the Black Riders.

Gollum slowly turns around so that he’s facing him; though, of course, he can’t see Frodo.  The hobbit hesitates to strike as planned, the resentment he felt only a moment earlier being gradually overruled by pity.  It must be something about looking him in the eyes, seeing him completely defenseless.  He lowers the sword, suddenly resolving to spare Gollum’s life.  Instead, he backs up and takes a running start, leaping over Gollum, the impact of his heel against Gollum’s temple sending him sprawling.  He’s off and running towards the cave entrance, hearing Gollum shrieking in the growing distance behind him: “Baggins!  Thief!  Curse it and crush it!  We hates it forever!”

Frodo emerges from the cave, squinting against the bright sunlight--

 _Sunlight?_  It’s _daytime?!_

Yet another thing to worry about later, as his feet seem to be carrying him down the slope of a mountain, past trees and large boulders and other obstacles towards the wizard he dares not lose track of.

Who were those people he was with, anyway?

The ground levels off, somewhat, and Frodo approaches the group--now having stopped to rest from running--coming close enough to hear Gandalf’s raised voice.

“Where is our hobbit?”

No one responds.  Instead they all look around frantically.

They’re dwarves.  There are about a dozen of them, give or take.

“Where is our hobbit?!” Gandalf demands, more forcefully this time.

 _“I’m right here, Gandalf,”_ Frodo wants to say, only he can’t.  He can’t move his mouth or make his vocal chords vibrate.  In fact, he begins to realize, he hasn’t been in control of his body since the Ring first slipped onto his finger.

Then it dawns on him: He can’t control his body _because it’s not his body._

These aren’t his hands, or his feet.  These aren’t his clothes.  The strands of hair passing in front of his eyes in the breeze are a much lighter shade than his dark curls.

He’s seeing the world through another person’s eyes.  But whose, exactly?

“Curse that halfling!  Now he’s lost?” says one of the dwarves.

“I thought he was with Dori!” says another.

“Don’t blame me!”

Dori?  Frodo wonders where he’s heard that name before…

“Where did you last see him?” says Gandalf.

“I think I saw him slip away when they first collared us,” says a dwarf whose hair and beard remind Frodo of a star-shaped doily owned by his Uncle Bilbo in Bag End.

“And what happened exactly?  Tell me!”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” says a dwarf with a deep voice, a mane of long, dark, wavy hair, and wearing a long coat with fur lining the shoulders.  “Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it.  He has thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door.”

Frodo tries to comprehend what he’s being accused of, what this “chance” is that this dwarf he’s never met says he took, but then surmises that he’s probably referring to a different Baggins.

“We will not be seeing our hobbit again.  He is long gone.”

The worried look on Doily-head’s face catches Frodo’s attention, if only momentarily, while he counts them off.

He moves...or rather, the body he’s inhabiting moves and stands behind a thick tree trunk, out of everyone’s view.

Frodo finally catches on...can’t believe it took him so long…

He didn’t count a dozen dwarves.  He counted _thirteen_.

Which means...this can only be…

_Uncle Bilbo?_

Frodo feels Bilbo’s entire body tense up.  Is it because he heard Frodo in his head, saying his name?

One hand reaches for the other and pulls the Ring off.

 

* * *

 

He’s back in The Prancing Pony.  It’s nighttime again; the windows are darkened and the lamps are lit.

The Ring is in the palm of his left hand.

A heavy hand comes down on Frodo’s shoulder and yanks him to his feet.

“You draw far too much attention to yourself, ‘Mr. Underhill’,” the Man known as Strider says in a hushed voice before hustling him forward and up the stairs to the second floor of the inn.

He opens a door to a private room and shoves Frodo inside.  The hobbit rights himself to a standing position as Strider closes the door behind them.

“What do you want?” he asks the Man.

“A little more caution from you.  That is no trinket you carry.”

“I carry nothing.”

“Indeed.”  He goes to the window and extinguishes a candle by pinching the burning wick between his thumb and forefinger.  “I can avoid being seen if I wish.”  He pinches out another.  “But to disappear entirely?”  He throws off his hood and faces Frodo.  “That is a rare gift.”

“Who are you?”

He squints at Frodo, almost pityingly, it seems.  “Are you frightened?”

Frightened?  And then some.  To that he would add confused, bewildered, frustrated, overwhelmed...and that would only begin to cover how he feels and has felt about everything that has happened over just the last few days, leading up to what just happened only moments ago.

“Yes,” is all he says.

“Not nearly frightened enough.  I know what hunts you.”

The sound of approaching footsteps right outside the door prompts Strider to draw his sword in a flash, just as it swings open and Frodo’s three companions come bursting through.  Merry is holding a lit candelabra, Pippin wields a bar stool for some reason, and Sam seems to have gotten it into his head that he can fight a full-grown Man with just his fists.

“Let him go!” Sam demands.  “Or I’ll have you, Longshanks!”

Later on, Frodo will remember this as yet another touching example of his friends tenacity and courage; “Samwise the Brave”, he’ll call him.

Strider relaxes and sheathes his sword.  “You have a stout heart, little hobbit, but that will not save you.”  Turning again to the Ring-bearer, he says, “You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo.  They’re coming.”

 

* * *

 

He can’t sleep.  Not just because of what’s after him--Strider says they’re called Nazgul, or Ringwraiths, once great kings of Men, led down the path of darkness by Sauron the deceiver.  The other three hobbits manage to fall asleep in the large bed in Strider’s room at the inn--they can’t use the hobbit-sized room they were going to rent because the Riders are sure to look for them there…

Frodo remains awake.  He sits on the edge of the bed, still wearing his coat for warmth.  Strider sits on the other side of the room, staring out the window.  As if his own concerns weren’t enough to trouble him, something new is beginning to plague his mind.  They’re just feelings at first, incoherent thoughts, but gradually they become clearer.  He sees images flash by in his mind’s eye, hears words and half-formed sentences spoken by voices he doesn’t quite recognize.

He sees the dwarves.  There are goblins too, lots of them, grotesque creatures, surrounding them in an ambush.  They pass out of sight, but one dwarf--Doily-head--looks back, and for a flash of an instant Frodo sees the expression of worry on his face, but also hope.

Another dwarf--this one with a long, dark mustache--reaches his hand over the edge of a cliff in the pouring rain, shouting frantically.

_“He’s been lost ever since he left home.  He should never have come.  He has no place amongst us.”_

It’s the dwarf with the deep voice who said it--rather harshly, it would seem to Frodo--mere moments after nearly falling off the cliff himself.

 _“You can’t turn back now.”_  That was Mustache.   _“You’re part of the Company.  You’re one of us.”_

These aren’t his own memories; he realizes they must be Bilbo’s.

The Ring granted him access to his uncle’s mind, allowed him to see through Bilbo’s eyes, and now he wonders if the magic of the Ring caused him to bring some of Bilbo’s mind back with him.

He tries pushing the memories away--not just for his own sake, but because it feels shameful to be invading his uncle’s private thoughts this way--but more just keep coming.  Eventually he gives up and just lets them come, figuring that if nothing else, these “memory echoes” might turn out to be a welcome distraction from everything happening in the present.  After all, Bilbo’s adventure with the dwarves happened...what was it, over sixty years ago?  Any past event from that long ago, no matter how perilous, Frodo can at least regard with a sort of cool detachment--something he is not able to do where the “here and now” is concerned.

 _“Where’s Bilbo?”_  Mustache said that when Bilbo was hanging over the edge of the cliff.  Later, after they’d found their way to safety and Bilbo tried to leave, it was Mustache who said, _“I wish you all the luck in the world.”_

All of that must have happened before Bilbo found the Ring in Gollum’s cave and put it on.  But then there are more memories, echoes of the minutes and hours after Bilbo took the Ring off, also.

Mustache looked relieved and happy to see Bilbo back.

Deep Voice wanted to know why he came back.  Bilbo’s answer to the dwarf’s question seemed to have some effect on him, however small, but Frodo isn’t quite sure how to identify it.

More flashes of imagery show Frodo orcs and wargs, swords and fire...Deep Voice lying on the ground unconscious...a flock of enormous eagles carrying the Company to safety...one of the dwarves shouting, “ _Thorin!”_ in distress.  It was the same distress Bilbo felt.  Frodo feels it too, through him, in the memory.

He was Thorin.  Deep Voice was Thorin.

The eagles dropped them off atop a high rock formation.  Gandalf performed some sort of magic on Thorin, whose eyes fluttered open.  Bilbo felt relieved to see him alive.

He got to his feet, glaring daggers at the hobbit.

_“You!  What were you doing?  You nearly got yourself killed!  Did I not say that you would be a burden?  That you would not survive in the Wild?  That you had no place amongst us?”_

Thorin stepped forward and threw his arms around Bilbo in a tight hug.

_“I have never been so wrong in all my life.”_

Bilbo felt...Frodo feels…

He doesn’t know why, but for some reason at that moment Frodo turns his head and looks at where Sam is lying.  His other two friends are fast asleep, but Sam’s eyes are open, already looking at him.

“Won’t you at least try to sleep?” Sam says softly.

Without saying a word, Frodo stands up and removes his coat, setting it down on a chair beside the bed, then he lies down beside Sam and closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

In the morning they set out for Rivendell.  “We’re going to see the elves!” Sam exclaims happily.

As the five of them walk through the Wilds together, Frodo hangs back at one point, keeping his pace but trying to stay out of earshot of the others.  He beckons Sam to walk beside him.

He didn’t say one word last night about what happened with the Ring.  He certainly wanted to, but wasn’t sure it was such a good idea with Strider there.  They’ve placed their trust in him to bring them safely to the Hidden Valley because they have no other choice but to trust him, but Frodo’s knowledge of the Ring’s power and what it allowed him to see doesn’t seem like something that should be shared with just anybody.  Still, Frodo wants-- _needs_ to tell somebody.  He can’t keep this secret all to himself.

“Sam...remember how Bilbo would disappear whenever he put the Ring on?”

“That’s what you told me,” Sam nods.  “Like what happened at the party.  Same thing happened to you last night at the inn.”

“Except it wasn’t the same.  I disappeared, yes, but there was more.  Sam...the Ring sent me somewhere.”

“It did?  Where?”

“Back.”

Sam frowns in confusion.  “Back?”

Frodo nods.  “Back to the first time Bilbo used it, over sixty years ago.  I was in his body.  I saw everything he saw, _through his eyes_.”

“Wait a minute.  You’re saying that…”

“Yes, Sam.  I travelled through time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Frodo have a conversation inside of Bilbo's head.

* * *

 

" _I spent all my childhood pretending I was off somewhere else.  Off with you, on one of your adventures.  But my own adventure turned out to be quite different."_

_\- Frodo Baggins_

  

* * *

 

 

Frodo wakes to the smells and sound of a campfire and cooking food.  He rolls over to see all three of his friends awake and enjoying a dinner for themselves beside the small fire they’ve built.  A feeling of dread seizes him.

“What are you doing?!”

Merry smiles in response.  “Tomatoes, sausages, and nice, crispy bacon,” he says, pointing to each kind of food on his plate with a fork.

“We saved some for you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam says, holding out a plate for him.  Frodo rushes to where they are and stamps out the flames with his bare feet.  “Put it out, you fools!  Put it out!”

“Oh, that’s nice!  Ash on my tomatoes!” Pippin protests.

 _This is what I get for not getting more rest at the inn,_ Frodo mentally laments.  Strider led them to this place, to these ruins of some ancient watchtower and instructed them to stay put while he went to have a look around.  Night has since fallen, and the Man still hasn’t returned.  Frodo doesn’t know how long it’s been, only that he must have fallen asleep at some point.

An unearthly screech pierces the night, magnifying Frodo’s dread tenfold.  The other three hobbits stand with him and peer over the edge of the cliff, spotting no less than five of the Black Riders approaching down below, no doubt led their way by the light of their campfire.

The hobbits draw their weapons, small swords given to them by Strider.  “Go!” Frodo urges the others, and together they run to the topmost part of the ruins, for whatever amount of time that may buy them.  The Riders pursue them to the top in scarcely any time at all, the five of them appearing from the shadows and coalescing in a line, shoulder to shoulder, the moonlight glinting off of their metallic boots and gauntlets.  They reach for their own swords--long, deadly blades--unsheathing them as they slowly approach their terrified prey.  The one at center steps forward, drawing closer...closer…

“Back, you devils!” Sam yells, charging forward valiantly (if futilely), producing a clang or two of his sword against that of the darkly cloaked aggressor before being swept aside.  Merry and Pippin fare no better, almost instantly finding themselves sprawling on the ground as well.

Frodo, alone, backs away, stumbling rearward and falling, dropping his sword in the process.  (It was heavy and cumbersome to hold, not like the one he had when...the one that Bilbo had.)  He watches in terror as the Ringwraith looms over him, reaching for him.  He’s the one they want; he’s the one who has the Ring…

The Ring!  Granted, it’s only a temporary means of escape, if it even works the same as it did before.  Only one way to find out.

Frodo reaches for his pocket, grabs the Ring, and slips it on.

* * *

He’s in a forest.

Not the same mountain forest as the last; this one is denser, darker, more stifling.  Many of the trees that surround him in all directions appear to grow at awkward angles, their roots and limbs twisted and gnarled, no doubt a relatively recent corruption of the old growth indicated by the massive thickness and towering height of the trees--not to mention the sheer number of them.

Indeed, this forest feels...sick.  As if a disease lies upon it.

An uncanny sound of groaning encompasses the area, an ever-present creaking hum seemingly emitted by the wood itself despite there not being any wind.  In fact, the very air feels heavy with...something.  Any meager amount of sunlight that manages to seep through the canopy high overhead is dismally dim by the time it reaches the ground, but at least it’s better than the pitch blackness of night.

Frodo’s heart...no, it’s Bilbo’s heart, isn’t it...is beating about as rapidly as Frodo’s was mere moments ago when he was confronted by the Nazgul, and a quick evaluation of his immediate surroundings helps him understand why.

There are spiders, giant ones.  The ground is littered with their dead carcasses, and not far beyond he spots the dwarves, accompanied by some taller folk.

They’re wood elves!

They don’t look very friendly.  In fact, their presence is about as welcoming as the ominous forest they inhabit.

It looks like they outnumber the dwarves, and each one holds a bow and arrow pointed at one of them.

“Search them,” says one, an elf with blond hair.

Frodo draws closer...that is, _Bilbo_ draws closer, cautiously, allowing Frodo to take notice of the bits of spider web clinging to the dwarves’ hair and clothing.  They must have just had a skirmish with the foul creatures before ending up in the custody of the elves, who are now confiscating all of their weapons.

The blond elf holds up a sword that has been handed to him, admiring its craftsmanship.  Frodo recognizes it as the sword that Thorin had in the mountains, and only now does he realize that it looks to be of Elvish make.

“Where did you get this?” the elf says to Thorin.

“It was given to me,” Thorin responds.

The elf levels the sword at him.  “Not just a thief, but a liar as well.”  He says something to the other elves in their language, and they begin to usher the dwarves off.

The dwarf with the long mustache passes Thorin fleetingly, but long enough for him to meet his eyes and utter, “Thorin, where’s Bilbo?” with a frown of unease.  Then an elf shoves him along, and the dwarf snarls in aggravation.

(Frodo is sure that all of the dwarves must care about Bilbo to a certain degree, but something about the dwarf with the long mustache is beginning to stand out.  He often seems to be the one looking after Bilbo’s wellbeing.  Frodo wishes he knew his name and wonders why his uncle never talked about him.)

Thorin looks around, the concern he must feel for Bilbo evident in his expression when he doesn’t see the hobbit anywhere.  Frodo can see _him_ , though, and he wants... _Bilbo_ wants to let Thorin know he’s all right, but he can’t, lest he alert the elves of his presence and they capture him too.

Then it occurs to him: Frodo can’t “hear” (for lack of a better word) anything his uncle is thinking--not really--despite being in the same head together, but he _can_ feel what Bilbo is feeling.  He recognizes the feeling he felt for Thorin just then, because it’s the same kind of feeling he has for...well, for Sam.

Sam!  The others...Frodo can’t believe he just abandoned them.

He also can’t believe that he (or, at least, his consciousness) is occupying a different time, decades before he, Sam, Merry, or Pippin have even been born.  It seems strange, the idea of feeling worried for someone who, from this perspective, doesn’t even exist yet.

He acted out of desperation.  Gandalf made it very clear how important it was to keep the Nazgul from getting the Ring and returning it to Sauron.  The fate of the world depends on it.  Painful as it is to even think of the possibility of his friends being harmed, there is a greater purpose at hand, and it must remain the primary focus.

Gandalf...where is Gandalf, anyway?  He’s not with Bilbo and the dwarves this time around?

Bilbo moves forward in pursuit of his friends and their captors, following them a great distance until they reach a greener, brighter part of the forest.  They cross a bridge passing high over a rushing river near a waterfall, entering the gates of an ornate, pillared entrance.  Bilbo, who’d hung safely back up to this point, hurries to catch up with them as they all file inside.  The blond elf stops and turns to look behind him one last time before finally passing through the gates, the last one to enter.  Bilbo rushes forward and barely makes it through the gates before the guards close them.

The dwarves are all herded to individual prison cells--all except Thorin.  He’s taken to a different part of the elves’ domain.  Bilbo follows.

Thorin is presented to the King, a statuesque elf wearing a crown resembling twigs and leaves and a rather ostentatious silver robe.  His hair, Frodo observes, is the same shade of blond as the elf who was giving commands out in the forest.  The King descends from his elevated throne to address Thorin.

“Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand,” he says upon learning the dwarves’ purpose for traveling through the forest.  “A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon.  I, myself, suspect a more prosaic motive.  Attempted burglary, or something of that ilk.”

He says something further, about jewels and gems and pure starlight, but Frodo misses most of it; he can’t help being distracted by the King’s imposing stare, not to mention his thick, dark eyebrows.

“I offer you my help,” the King says with a slight bow of the head.

Thorin smirks.  “I am listening.”

“I will let you go, if you but return what is mine.”

“A favor for a favor,” Thorin muses.

“You have my word, one king to another.”

Thorin has moved away a bit and is now standing with his back to the King.  “I would not trust Thranduil, the great King, to honor his word, should the end of all days be upon us!”  His voice is raised, a deep, echoing rumble, like thunder.  He rounds on the King, pointing a finger of accusation at him.  “You!  Who lack all honor!  I have seen how you treat your friends!  We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking your help!  But you turned your back!”

The King’s mouth hangs agape; he’s clearly shocked at Thorin’s boldness, speaking to him this way.

“You turned away from the suffering of my people!  The inferno that destroyed us!”

Thorin says some more words that Frodo doesn’t understand.  The King advances on him, bending to stare him right in the face, his expression fierce.  “Do not talk to me of dragon fire!” he retorts, his voice lowered to a sharp hiss.  “I know its wrath and ruin.  I have faced the great serpents of the North!”

Neither Bilbo nor Frodo have any idea what just happened to the King’s face, but both of them found it pretty nauseating and they’re glad it didn’t last long.

“I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon, but he would not listen.  You are just like him.”  The King ascends the steps to his throne, waving Thorin off, and the guards carry him away.  “Stay here if you will, and rot.  A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf.  I’m patient.  I can wait.”

Gruff demeanor aside, Frodo thinks he’s beginning to understand why his uncle is drawn to Thorin the way that he is.  By no means does Frodo believe that a person is justified in being cruel to others just because that person has suffered from cruelty; but if what Thorin said is true, about the pain and woe his people have endured, then as their would-be king, his indignation (which seems to be reserved only for those who deserve it anyway) is not only comprehensible, but necessary.  Frodo feels Bilbo’s heart swell with a desire to help.

There has to be more to this than simple compassion, though.  There’s affection, too.  Bilbo clearly cares for Thorin.

“Did he offer you a deal?” asks the dwarf with white hair and a white beard once Thorin is locked up in a cell among the others.

“He did,” Thorin says.  “I told him he could go…”  And then he says some more Dwarvish words Frodo can’t translate, but he has a feeling that they’re not very courteous.

“Well, that’s that, then,” says the white-haired dwarf in resignation.  “A deal was our only hope.”

“Not our only hope.”

So it’s up to Bilbo to save the day.  And he will, Frodo already knows it.  He remembers his uncle telling him this part of the story, about Mirkwood, the Elvenking, escaping from the Woodland Realm, and so on.  He begins to see, though, that Bilbo may not have told him all of it.

Certainly, he recalls Bilbo _mentioning_ Thorin Oakenshield, the onetime King of Erebor, on one occasion or another, but other than a few small details, Frodo learned very little about him.  He also recalls that Thorin died at the end.  Perhaps that’s part of the reason why Bilbo didn’t tell him very much.  If only he could ask about him now.

Frodo never realized until now just how much he misses his uncle.  He hasn’t seen him since the night he left the Shire, the night of his eleventy-first birthday party.  He wishes he could see him, speak to him, ask him questions.

Bilbo’s stomach muscles suddenly contract, an involuntary action that startles him.  Frodo feels Bilbo’s momentary confusion, and beneath that, his own silliness.  Wishes he could speak to Bilbo?  Bilbo is right here!

_Bilbo?_

Bilbo’s body tenses, but at least this time he doesn’t take off the Ring.  He wheels around, looking in all directions for the source of the voice he just heard.  “Who’s there?”

_Good!  So you can hear me._

“Yes, of course I hear you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.  Luckily he’s in a part of the Woodland Realm that is presently unoccupied.  “But…”

 _But you don’t hear me, not with your ears._  And he didn’t hear anything Frodo was thinking up to this point.  Perhaps Bilbo can only hear his thoughts if he...directs them at him?  The same ought to work in reverse.

_I’m inside your head._

“What?!”

 _I don’t think you need to speak aloud.  I should be able to hear your thoughts if you...think them_ at _me._

Bilbo blinks a few times.   _You mean like this?_

_Yes, that’s it._

_Who are you?_

_Well...this may be hard to believe, but...I’m your nephew.  My name is Frodo._

_Frodo?  My nephew?  I’ve never met any nephew named Frodo._

_Yes, well, that’s because I haven’t been born yet._

Bilbo shakes his head.   _I’m confused._

_It’s the magic of the Ring you’re wearing.  I’m from the future.  Your future, my present.  It would seem that the Ring’s power works a bit differently for me than it does for you.  When I wear it in my time, it sends me back to the past, to the times when you’ve worn it.  It allows me to see what you’re seeing._

Bilbo pauses for a few heartbeats, sorting out this new information.   _So you’re really in my head, then._

_Yes._

_And your name is Frodo.  And you and I know each other in the future?_

_Yes, to both._

_So that means I survive this adventure, then?_

_Well...yes._

_And I make it back to the Shire?_

Frodo hesitates, fearing he’s already revealed too much.

 _What about my friends?_ Bilbo carries on.   _The dwarves.  Do they all make it as well?  What happens with the dragon?_

Frodo feels like kicking himself, if only he had his own legs to do so.  He hadn’t stopped to consider that his uncle might have some questions of his own, things that he would want to know about the future; nor had he contemplated the possibility that communicating with him in this way could potentially alter past events and consequently affect future ones.

What will happen now that he’s told Bilbo he’ll survive?  Will he consider his survival a sure thing and become overconfident, resulting in his demise?

Not a chance; Frodo knows his uncle is too smart to be that careless.  Then again, he is a bit surprised that Bilbo believed him so readily when he told him he was his future nephew.

What if Bilbo doesn’t make it back to the Shire?  What will happen to the Ring?  To the world?

_Frodo?  Did you hear me?  I asked you if my friends are going to survive._

Frodo wonders if it’s too late to retract everything.   _I don’t know,_ he lies.

_You don’t know?  How can you not know?_

_I don’t know what’s going to happen, Uncle.  All I can tell you is...don’t take anything for granted.  Or anyone._

_What does that mean?_

Now, Frodo realizes, would probably be a good time to shut up.  To think, he had intended to be the one asking his uncle questions, not the other way around.

_Frodo?_

_The dwarf with the long mustache and thick braids...what is his name?_  It was the first thing that came to mind.

_His name?  Bofur._

_Bofur?_  That’s cute.

_Yes, Bofur.  Why?_

“I know you’re there.”

Bilbo freezes and holds his breath.

“Why do you linger in the shadows?”

In his wandering through the lower lairs of the Woodland Realm, he hadn’t anticipated running face to face into the Elvenking, or being perceived despite his invisibility.

“I was coming to report to you,” says a she-elf with very long red hair as she comes around the corner.  Bilbo exhales and relaxes, then moves off.

Frodo doesn’t say anything after that--or rather, doesn’t think anything, not audibly, but retreats into a quiet corner of Bilbo’s mind and goes back to silently observing.  Bilbo continues searching for a way out, eventually discovering the keys to the prison cells hanging on a peg down in the wine cellar, the guard having left them there after being invited by some of the other elves to join them for a drink.

The elves’ merrymaking leads to a drunken nap, and Bilbo has an idea of how they can escape.  Frodo remembers this part of the story as well.

“I’ll wager the sun is on the rise,” Frodo hears Mustache saying as Bilbo approaches the prison cells with the stolen keys.  “Must be nearly dawn.”

 _That was him?_ Frodo mentally pipes up before he can stop himself.   _That’s Bofur?_

_Frodo?  I thought you had gone!_

_No, I’ve been here the whole time._

Frodo feels Bilbo’s annoyance.

_That was Bofur?_

_Yes, that’s Bofur.  Why?_

_You’d better hurry, Uncle, before someone realizes the keys are missing._

Bilbo audibly sighs.   _All right.  So, when I take the Ring off, I won’t hear you any more after that?_

_That’s right._

_Well, then, I suppose this is goodbye, Frodo.  Wish me luck._

_Good luck._  Not that he needs it; Frodo is sure Bilbo will be fine.  He’s far more concerned about the state of things in his own time, and what he’ll find when he gets back.

Bilbo takes the Ring off.

* * *

Pain.

Unbearable, piercing, searing pain in his left shoulder, the kind that renders him incapable of doing anything but letting out a very loud scream of anguish.

“Frodo!” says Sam, rushing to his side.

Despite his capacity to think about anything but the agony in his shoulder being not so good at the moment, Frodo is surprised and grateful to see that Sam is still alive.

“Oh, Sam.”

Considering how much time he spent in the Woodland Realm with Bilbo, he was expecting to return to find all three of his friends either captured or slain, and the Ringwraiths long gone, but that is not the case.

He sees Strider nearby, fighting them off with a sword and a flaming torch.  The fire glows brighter as one by one the villains are engulfed in flames, their ear-splitting screeches amplified, then gradually fading as they flee from the scene.

Merry and Pippin arrive at Frodo’s side, unharmed.  He writhes and whimpers in pain.

“Strider!” Sam cries.  “Help him, Strider!”

“He’s been stabbed by a Morgul-blade,” the Man says, holding the object, then throwing the handle to the ground after the blade crumbles to ash.  He reaches for Frodo, who yells in agony as he’s lifted into Strider’s arms.  “This is beyond my skill to heal.  He needs Elvish medicine.”

Most of what happens after that is little more than a blur.  He’s carried through the woods, then set down on the ground, then carried again, and so on, multiple times.  The world around him dissolves into a haze, his eyes clouded over, unable to focus on anything.  The pain in his shoulder never lessens, but grows into a bodywide strain, an unearthly nausea that seems to permeate every fiber of his being.

Then, before his eyes appears a figure bathed in light, and elf maid softly whispering some Elvish words he doesn’t understand, but they possess a soothing quality nonetheless.  In his delirium, he wonders if somehow he has wound up back in Mirkwood, among the elves of the Woodland Realm.

He is lifted off the ground once again and placed on a horse’s back with the elf maid.

“Ride hard,” he faintly hears Strider saying.

And they do, for quite a distance, across fields, through more woods, eventually slowing to a stop after passing over the shallow waters of a river.  The elf maid directs the horse to turn around and face the Black Riders on the other side.  She unsheathes a sword.

“If you want him, come and claim him!”

The Riders advance, and the elf maid whispers more Elvish words.

The last thing Frodo sees and hears before his senses subside is a great deluge; an onslaught of rushing water cascading down the length of the river in a massive wave, like a thunderous stampede.

* * *

Water.  Rushing water.  Orcs, fearsome creatures, running along both sides of the river.  The dwarves, riding in barrels, fighting them off as best they can, with no small help from the blond elf.

Bilbo had no barrel for himself.  He fell into the water with a splash.  When he bobbed to the surface, Doily-head was there, extending a helping hand.  Bilbo clung to the side of his barrel.

 _“Well done, Master Baggins,”_ Thorin said.

Bilbo succeeded in getting them out.  His eyes met Thorin’s briefly as he unlocked his cell, the two of them sharing the triumphant moment, before he moved on to freeing the others.

 _“Close the doors,”_ Thorin ordered, “ _it’ll buy us more time.”_

Doily-head waved Bilbo over.

 _“All right, Nori,”_ Bilbo said.

Nori reached through the bars, patting Bilbo’s arm excitedly before he’d even begun to unlock the door.

The dwarves were incredulous about Bilbo’s idea to climb inside the barrels.  Bilbo looked to Thorin for support.

_“Do as he says!”_

An orc leapt at Doily-head...at Nori.  Bilbo ran it through with his sword...with Sting.

 _“It stings!”_ the spider shrieked, falling dead to the forest floor.

 _“Sting...that’s a good name!”_ Bilbo said.

He used the sword, Sting, to cut the dwarves loose from the spider web, rousing them to action when they landed on the ground below.  Bilbo observed them peeling the web off of themselves from the tree branch directly above.

 _“Where’s Bilbo?”_ Bofur said.

The barrels scraped against the bottom of the river as it slowed to a shallow trickle.  The company began to climb out onto the shore--but one member was missing.

_“Bilbo!”_

“Bilbo...” Frodo whispers hoarsely, his voice weak.  “Bilbo…”

“Yes, my lad.  I’m here.”

He feels a warm hand close around his own.

The memory echoes begin to fade.  Frodo’s eyes slowly blink open.  He’s lying in a large bed inside an unfamiliar room.  He looks to the side and sees his uncle sitting there.  Bilbo has aged since the last time he saw him, his hair having turned completely white, but his smile is as youthful as ever.

“My dear boy.”  He reaches for Frodo’s face, gently caressing his cheek.  “We were so worried about you.”

“Uncle Bilbo!”

Frodo returns the smile and moves to sit up, but then winces in pain from the wound in his shoulder.  He suddenly remembers everything that happened.

“Sam…” he says earnestly.  “The others…”

“Frodo!”

As if on cue, Sam comes running, arriving at Frodo’s side and taking his hand.  Bilbo lets out a soft chuckle.

“Bless you, you’re awake!”

“Sam,” Frodo says happily.

Gandalf enters the room right after him.  “Your friends are fine.  Strider guided them here safely.  You are in Rivendell, Frodo, in the house of Elrond, and it is ten o’clock in the morning on October the twenty-fourth, if you want to know.”

“Gandalf!”

“Yes, I am here, and you’re lucky to be here too.  A few more hours and you would have been beyond our aid.”  He smiles.  “But, you have some strength in you, my dear hobbit.”

Frodo is happy to see everyone, but then his smile turns into a small frown of concern.  “What happened, Gandalf?  Why didn’t you meet us?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Frodo.”  And he does look genuinely regretful.  “I was delayed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll do more than just follow the events of the movies in the upcoming chapters...starting with the next chapter, in fact. This is just a starting point, really, before we reach the point of divergence.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

_"There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil.  Bilbo was meant to find the Ring.  In which case, you were also meant to have it.  And that is an encouraging thought."_

_\- Gandalf_

  

* * *

 

 

**Year 2941 of the Third Age**

 

Bofur returned from helping Bombur wash the breakfast dishes in the stream to find Nori leaning with his back against a tree near the camp.  He was smoking, his eyes closed against the morning sun shining on his face between the trees.  He opened them when he heard Bofur coming.

“So,” Bofur said with a smile, hands in his pockets, nodding in the direction of a dwarf on the opposite end of the camp, “what d’ya think o’ Dwalin?”

Nori removed the pipe from his mouth, exhaled a puff of smoke, and looked lazily in the direction Bofur was looking.

Dwalin was not yet fully dressed, the sleeves of his undergarment rolled up past the elbows, showing off his muscular forearms as he swung at the air in front of him with his two axes, Grasper and Keeper, a common morning “warm-up” ritual of his that he seemed to practice every day before the company set out for the next leg of their journey.

“A dwarf could do worse,” Nori responded.  “I wouldn’t bother, though.  I’m pretty sure he has eyes for my brother.”

“What?  Dwalin fancies Dori?”

Nori paused midway through raising the pipe to his mouth again and stared hard at Bofur, whose lips twitched in his vain attempt to hide his amusement.  He knew full well that Nori was referring to his younger brother, Ori.  Dori, his older brother, was more suited to Dwalin’s older brother, Balin.

“Rascal,” Nori said with narrowed eyes.  “You’re cute sometimes, you know that?”

Bofur laughed and moved to stand beside him, folding his arms and leaning sideways with his shoulder against the tree.  “So, Dwalin fancies the scribe, eh?  Well, good for them, I guess.  What about Bilbo, then?”

This sort of conversation was normal for them.  For as long as Bofur and Nori had been friends--which was too many years to count--they always compared notes on who they thought was easiest on the eyes in whatever environment they happened to find themselves.  It was always done in the spirit of fun, in private whispers to one another so as to not make anyone else uncomfortable.  This time around, having been on the road for over a week, they turned their attention to the members of their own immediate company, for what it was worth.  Thorin, Fili, and Kili, for example, were all nice to look at, there was no question about that.  As for Bilbo…

Nori didn’t answer right away.  He was observing the dreamy expression on his friend’s face.  He could read Bofur like a book, and he recognized the difference between the fond smile he presently wore and the mischievous (albeit harmless) grin he’d shown only moments earlier while looking at Dwalin.  He followed Bofur’s gaze to where the hobbit was busy rolling up his bedroll and gathering all of his belongings together in his pack, the last member of the company to do so, as he had slept slightly later than everyone else.

At first Bofur had been hesitant to wake him up; he’d been resting so peacefully.  But Bilbo would have missed out on breakfast if Bofur had let him sleep--the other dwarves would have devoured everything without a second thought--and that just wouldn’t do.  So Bofur had woken him and alerted him that breakfast was ready, and as a reward--if one wanted to be so soppy about it--he’d been graced by the hobbit’s sunniest smile, accompanied by a simple “Thank you, Bofur.”

As a result, Bofur would spend the rest of the morning unable to banish the smile from his own face--not that anyone would really notice or question it, since he tended to be a fairly upbeat dwarf anyway.

Nori noticed, and didn’t have to question it.  He sighed.  “I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”

Bofur frowned.  “What do you mean?”

“That was clever, starting the conversation by mentioning Dwalin first, as if the scrumptious eyeful he imparts is any comparison to what you see when you stare at the hobbit.  Thought you could throw me off, eh?”

“I don’t _stare_ at him!”

“Oh, please.  You’ve had your eye on him since we first showed up at his place.”  Nori smirked and returned the pipe to his mouth.

“Aye, well…”  Bofur didn’t know what to say next.

Nori exhaled more smoke, and his teasing expression became more sensible.  “Relax, Bofur.  Anyone can see why you would care about Bilbo.  We all do in our own way.  I just feel, as your friend, that I should caution you from getting too attached.  Don’t forget who you are, and who he is.  We’re from different worlds.  Gold doesn’t have the same value to hobbits that it has for dwarves.  No matter how unbelievably rich you might become at the end of this adventure--if we even make it that far--he’ll still want to return to his home, to be among his own kind again.”

Nori’s words were a testament to how well he knew Bofur.  And he was right: Bofur may have only known Bilbo for a short time, but his attraction to the hobbit was sure to develop beyond “just-for-fun” territory if he let it.

“Then again,” Nori went on, “if it turns out I’m wrong about that...I saw him first.”

Bofur’s jaw fell, his neck almost snapping as his head jerked to one side so he could gawk at his friend in astonishment.  “You did not!”

Nori grinned.  “I’m just teasing!  Mahal, you’re easy.”

Bofur jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow, and Nori jabbed him back; both laughed.

“Actually,” Nori said, pointing towards the camp with the stem of his pipe, his voice taking a serious tone again, “if there’s any competition you should be worried about…”

Bofur looked and saw Thorin returning to the camp, having left after finishing breakfast to take a short walk by himself before Bilbo was even awake.

“Who, Thorin?” Bofur said in disbelief.  “You’re crazy.”

“What can I say?  I have an eye for these things.”

Bofur watched as Bilbo stood up, straightening the straps of his carefully bundled pack, trying to evenly balance the weight on his shoulders.  Thorin uttered a simple “Good morning, Master Baggins” as he passed him, which Bilbo responded to with a curt nod, before the dwarf moved on to rouse the others, most of whom were still sitting around taking it easy.

Oh, sure, anyone would choose a prince...a _king_ , if one had such an option available; but Thorin had been cold to Bilbo ever since they first met, treating him with little more than indifference, at best.  Whatever it was that Nori thought he had “an eye” for, Bofur didn’t see it.

“Guess we better get going.”  Bofur started forward, patting his pockets and finding them empty.  “Say...where’s my pipe?”

“It was in your bag,” said Nori.

 _Was?_  Bofur rounded on him.  “That’s _my_ pipe you’re smokin’!”

“You’re sharp.”

“Why aren’t you usin’ your own?”

“Yours was closer.”

“Give it back!”

Bofur swiped at the the air in front of Nori, trying to grab the pipe, but he was too slow.  Nori held it up out of his reach.

“All right, don’t get your mustache in a knot.  Just let me have one more puff.”

“You scoundrel,” Bofur jibed, smirking and placing his hands on his hips.  “Once a thief, always a thief, I see.”

Nori batted his eyelashes.  “You say the sweetest things.”

The dwarves and Bilbo gathered their belongings, mounted their ponies (or, in the case of Gandalf, his horse), and ventured forth for the day.  Bofur rode a few spaces behind Bilbo, glancing every once and again at the hobbit’s profile as he looked left and right, no doubt admiring the beautiful countryside all around them.  Nori had made a fair point when he cautioned Bofur not to get too attached to Bilbo, but something else he’d said resurfaced in Bofur’s memory: _“if we even make it that far”_ .  Considering what they were planning on going up against--a _dragon_ , for Mahal’s sake--there was no guarantee that any of them would survive this adventure.  With that in mind, Bofur resolved to try to start a real conversation with Bilbo one of these days, and maybe, just maybe, he would find more to say than just “Get up, lazybones, you don’t want to miss breakfast!”

Maybe Nori was right, maybe it wasn’t practical to get too involved with a hobbit.  Then again, if their very existence could be reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash before you could even say “poof”, what did it matter?  Why give any practical consideration to the future when there might not even be a future at all?

The uncertainty, the dangers that lay ahead...if anything, it all seemed like the perfect motivation to live for the present, to appreciate everything that was good in “the here and now”, and not let any of it go to waste.  Indeed, Bofur knew that he just couldn’t bear the thought of missing out on his chance to get to know Bilbo Baggins on a deeper level, whatever the ultimate outcome might be.

Oddly enough, the moment Bofur decided not to worry about the future, was also the moment he began to feel the most hope and excitement for it.

 

* * *

 

**_Frodo’s time..._ **

 

“I will take it!”

Frodo’s words have no effect at first.  The shouting, arguing, bickering voices of the Men, elves, and dwarves present at Lord Elrond’s secret council are far too loud for Frodo’s voice to be heard over them.  He moves closer.

“I will take it!” he repeats, louder this time.

Gradually the voices die down.  All heads turn, all eyes are on him.

“I will take the Ring to Mordor.  Though...I do not know the way.”

He hears the words coming from his own mouth and can hardly believe them.  There was a time when he would have been glad to be rid of the Ring; assumed, in fact, that once he brought it to Rivendell his job would be done.  But the Ring cannot stay in Rivendell, and if Frodo Baggins has carried it this far, it only seems to follow that he should carry it the rest of the way, to cast it into the fires of Mount Doom, the only place it can be destroyed.

It is nobody’s choice but his own.  To an outsider, it would likely appear brave and selfless to commit to such a deed, but secretly, deep down, a part of him wonders if perhaps he’s more reluctant to part with the Ring than he once thought.  It _must_ be destroyed, there’s no doubt about that.  But even after everything he’s been through--the ordeal with the Ringwraiths at the ruins of Weathertop, the wound he suffered… His strength has returned, yes, but Gandalf said it will never fully heal, that he will carry it with him the rest of his life…

In spite of it all, he still feels it would be a shame not to use the Ring to travel back in time at least one or two more times before it passes out of his hands for good.

“I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins,” Gandalf says, placing a hand on his shoulder, “as long as it is yours to bear.”

Strider--or Aragorn, as Frodo has learned is his real name, stands.  “If by my life or death I can protect you, I will.”  He steps forward and kneels before the hobbit.  “You have my sword.”

“And you have my bow,” says an elf.  Not just any elf…

“And my--”

“It’s you!” Frodo exclaims.

“...axe.”  The dwarf, Gimli, humphs at having been interrupted and ignored.

“You’re the blond elf from Mirkwood.”  Frodo stares up at him, eyes wide, having only just recognized him now that he’s standing apart from the other elves.  He hasn’t aged a day, of course.

The elf exchanges glances with both Aragorn and Gandalf momentarily before looking again to Frodo.  “Yes, I am from Mirkwood.  My father is King of the Woodland Realm.”

Gandalf squints at Frodo suspiciously.

Sam vows never to let Frodo go anywhere without him--no surprise there--and Merry and Pippin join in as well, the three of them all rushing in from where they were hiding to join the group despite none of them having been invited to the secret council, following one other: a Man of Gondor named Boromir, who pledges his service on behalf of his homeland.

“Nine companions,” Lord Elrond marvels.  “So be it.  You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.”

 

* * *

 

“My old sword, Sting.”  Bilbo unveils the weapon from the cloth in which it was wrapped.  “Here, take it.”

Frodo holds it, admiring its details and the way it catches the light in the warm glow of the candlelit bedroom.  He never got such a good look at it before, and he realizes that this is the first time he’s holding it with his own hand, rather than Bilbo’s hand.

Frodo smiles.  “It’s so light.”

“Yes.  Made by the elves of the First Age, you know.”

Frodo glances at his uncle’s wrinkled hands as Bilbo rubs them together.  It’s still so surreal, the awareness that he, Frodo once held this very sword with those very hands, that are not his hands, and while from his perspective it was mere days ago, in reality it was actually several decades ago.

“The blade glows blue when orcs or goblins are nearby.  And it’s times like that, my lad, when you have to be extra careful.”  Bilbo reaches for another item laid upon the small table at the foot of the bed.  “Here’s a pretty thing…”

He holds it up, and it looks to be a shirt made up of thousands of tiny interconnected metal rings, like a piece of chain mail armor.  “Mithril,” Bilbo says.  “As light as a feather, and as hard as dragon scales.  No blade can pierce it.”

Frodo sets the sword aside so that Bilbo can place the mithril shirt in his hands.

“I’m giving you these things because I no longer need them...but you will.”

Frodo notices the wistful look in Bilbo’s eyes just then, and finds himself prompted to a melancholy of his own.  Here they are, soon to be separated again, their time together having been so short, only this time it’s Frodo who’s leaving and Bilbo who’s staying behind, in Rivendell.  Age, it seems, has finally caught up with him, and the journey that lies ahead for Frodo is the sort that is no longer within Bilbo’s capacity.

Frodo searches for something to say, but then realizes that his uncle’s gaze hasn’t moved from the mithril shirt in his hands, the sad, far-off look in his eyes never faltering.

Bilbo sighs.  Frodo holds the garment higher to examine it more closely.

“This was given to you by the dwarves, wasn’t it?”  Frodo peers at Bilbo through the armor’s myriad rings, as if looking at him through a piece of sheer fabric.  “By Thorin?”  He lowers it so he can look directly into Bilbo’s eyes.  “Was it Thorin who gave it to you?”

“Yes,” Bilbo breathes.

Frodo hesitates, then finally proceeds: “You cared for him, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Bilbo responds immediately.  “He was my friend.”

“Yes, but I mean...did you care about him as _more_ than a friend?”

And just like that, here they are.  Frodo always wondered if he and his uncle were more alike than some people might have assessed--in one aspect in particular--and even though they never talked about it frankly and openly, he always hoped and assumed that they would, eventually.  He never gave much thought to exactly _how_ they would arrive at the subject, or who would bring it up first, he simply presumed that it would just happen in time.

But time, it seemed, had a way of slipping by, no matter how slow-paced life in the Shire might be, and before you knew it, years had passed and time was up.  Bilbo was there with him in Bag End like always one day, and gone the next, and who knew if Frodo would ever see him again?  Let alone have a chance to talk with him about these matters that were so important, yet so neglected…

“It doesn’t matter,” Bilbo finally answers.  “That’s all in the past.”

Any other time, Frodo might have let the matter drop.  But things are different now.

“What if it was happening right now?  What if you were with the dwarves, on the quest for the Lonely Mountain...is there anything you would do differently?  Anything you would say to Thorin, that you never got the chance to say?”

Bilbo’s expression hardens just the slightest bit.  “My boy, that was a very long time ago.  What happened, happened.  There’s no sense in dwelling on any of it now.”

“I just wondered,” Frodo murmurs quietly, “knowing what you know now, if there was anything you wish you had known then.  If only you could...speak to your younger self.”

Bilbo’s focus shifts to a gap in Frodo’s collar where the top button is undone, and the Ring hanging there visibly from a gold chain around his neck, given to him to wear by the elves.

“Yes.  I would tell my younger self to get rid of that ring, to carry it to Mordor and dispose of it myself.”

Frodo blinks.  “Uncle…”

“My lad, did you think I had forgotten?  Hearing you inside of my head, saying, ‘This is your nephew, Frodo, whom you’ve yet to meet because I’ve yet to be born’, and then twenty-seven years later cousins Drogo and Primula give birth to a son, and who would have guessed, they decide to name you Frodo...I may be old, but at least give me some credit, that something like that would not slip out of my memory.”

Bilbo turns away, inching around to the side of the bed so he can sit on the edge of it with his back to Frodo.

“It means the world to me, Frodo, that you would want to help me.  But I don’t deserve it.”

Frodo moves over to where he is and stands in front of him, placing a hand on his arm.  “How can you say such a thing?”

Bilbo doesn’t look at him; instead he finds a spot on the floor to stare at.  “I’m sure there are plenty of things I would have my younger self say to Thorin if I gave it some thought, but in the end none of it would matter because in the end I still wouldn’t be able to save him.”

Save him?

Frodo is intuitive enough to have seen that Thorin’s death must still weigh on Bilbo’s heart, even after so many years, but the thought of whether or not it would be possible to save him never entered Frodo’s mind.

Bilbo thinks he’s undeserving of help because he couldn’t save Thorin?

“At least he knew the dangers that lay before him and chose to face them anyway.  But you, Frodo...you were never given a choice.”  Bilbo glances up at him briefly, then looks away again.  “That ring is evil, Frodo.  I never realized how evil it was until it was no longer in my possession, until its power over me had finally ceased after so many years...once I left it with you.”

Frodo’s eyes widen with compassion and concern as he begins to understand.

“Don’t you see?  I’m the one who brought this upon you.”

_Oh, Uncle..._

“It’s because of me that you carry this burden, a burden that should have been mine.  It’s because of me that you were very nearly killed.”

“But I wasn’t.”

Frodo lays a hand on Bilbo’s cheek, tilting his head upward so that his uncle’s eyes meet his.

“Uncle, this burden...it was never yours.  Nor is it mine.  It belongs...well, to all of us.”

Bilbo looks at him silently, forlornly.

“I may be the one to carry the Ring,” Frodo says, “but I won’t be alone.  I’ve never been alone.  There have always been others to help me along.  But none of them have ever meant nearly as much to me as you do.  You were there for me when my parents died, you opened your home to me, made me feel loved…”

Bilbo manages a meager smile.

“Please don’t blame yourself, Uncle Bilbo.”

 _For this, or for any other pain you didn’t cause,_ Frodo thinks to himself, but decides against saying it aloud.

“It’s like you said, it’s all in the past,” he adds with a smile.  “Right?”

Bilbo rocks forward, moving to stand so that he can wrap his arms tightly around his nephew.  Frodo returns the hug, and the two of them remain in each other’s embrace for a long time, neither one saying a word, neither one wanting to let go.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

_"All you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to you."_

_\- Gandalf_

 

* * *

 

 

Frodo finds Sam on one of the balconies overlooking the waterfalls, gathering his belongings and everything needed for the journey ahead and stuffing them into his pack.  He stands when he notices Frodo approaching, carrying his uncle’s book with him: a manuscript in a red leather binding, an account of Bilbo’s adventures with the words _There and Back Again: a Hobbit’s Tale by Bilbo Baggins_ written on the title page.

“Still looking at that?” Sam asks.  “Haven’t you read it twice already?”

“Three times.  I want to know more, and I think there is more to this story than my uncle is telling me.  Sam…”  He sets the book down on a table and draws closer.  “I’ve been wondering about something.  On Weathertop...when I put on the Ring, when I disappeared...how long was it before I reappeared?”

Sam shrugs.  “A few seconds, no more.”

A few seconds.  The time Frodo spent inside young Bilbo’s head in the Woodland Realm amounted to much longer than that.

“And in The Prancing Pony?”

“Same.”

Frodo nods his understanding.  “And the Ringwraith...did he stab me before or after I reappeared?”

“Before, most definitely.  Strider had already begun to fight them off when you came back.”

“So then my body never went anywhere.  It was only my consciousness that was sent back in time.”

Sam watches quizzically as Frodo unfastens the chain from around his neck and allows the Ring to slide off of it into the palm of his hand.

“I want to use the Ring one more time before we leave Rivendell,” Frodo says.

“But you can’t!  You’ll lure the Ringwraiths here!”

“Maybe not.  If the amount of time I spend in the past inside Uncle Bilbo’s head has no bearing on how long I’m wearing the Ring in the present, then I shouldn’t need to wear it for more than a second.  That’s where you come in, Sam.  I’ll slip the Ring onto my finger, and then you slip it off.  Just feel for it.”

“What if one second is all it takes, Mr. Frodo?  What if the wraiths still come?  They’ll attack Rivendell.  You’ll be putting us all in danger!”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know that it’s safe, either.”

“Sam, I have to do this.  For Uncle Bilbo’s sake.”

Sam considers this, then says, “Is it?  Is it for his sake?  Or is it something else?”

Frodo frowns.  “Something else?  What are you talking about?”

“Lord Elrond said the Ring must be destroyed.  You say you want to use it just one more time.  But what if one more time isn’t enough?  What if you keep wanting to use it?  How will you be able to destroy it, then?”

Frodo tries to think of an argument to make and realizes that he can’t.  Sam reaches for his hand, the one not holding the Ring, and takes it in both of his.

“Please, Frodo.  Don’t.”

Frodo stares silently into Sam’s wide, beseeching eyes.  This isn’t the first time he’s found himself lost in those eyes.  But more than that, he’s astonished.  Simple hobbit that he is, Sam Gamgee seems to possess an amazing talent for being the voice of reason that Frodo needs, at just the right time, in addition to being tenderhearted, selfless, and brave.

Frodo nods, his eyes slowly drifting to the floor.

“You’re right, Sam.”

Sam smiles and lets go of Frodo’s hand, albeit reluctantly, so that he can return the chain to its place around his neck with the Ring attached.  Frodo turns away, slowly, reaching for the book and lifting it carefully off of the table as if it were a fragile relic.

He wishes to linger in this moment...feels that there’s more that can be derived from it…

“Sam,” he says with his back still turned, clutching the book against his chest, “what would I do without you?”

Sam chuckles.  “I wouldn’t be able to find a moment’s peace or rest if I didn’t know you were going to be all right, Mr. Frodo.  I reckon I look after you for my own sake more than anything else.”

Frodo turns and faces him again.  Something inside of him seems to be saying, Now, Frodo.  Now is your moment.  Tell him how you feel.

“You don’t have to call me Mr. Frodo, you know.  Just Frodo is enough,” is all he says, then he walks away.

He is baffled at his own cowardice.

* * *

Frodo lies awake that night trying to put the squandered moment out of his mind and having no luck at it.  He thinks of Uncle Bilbo, about how he said there are many things he could have or would have said to Thorin while they were on their quest, but didn’t.  Frodo’s company is set to leave for their own quest in the morning, to face who knows what kind of dangers, and yet he can’t even face Sam and tell him how he really feels?  Is he really that afraid of being rejected?  After all the times they bonded, all the times that Sam demonstrated his devotion in both word and deed, can he really be so doubtful as to think that their friendship will be ruined beyond repair should Frodo try for something more, only to learn that Sam’s acts of friendship were just that, acts of friendship and nothing more?

In his mind’s eye Frodo can already see the look of sympathy in Sam’s eyes when he has to let Frodo down gently, and he can hardly stand it.  In many ways Sam reminds him of his own caring father, the late Drogo Baggins.  Frodo knows Sam will make a wonderful father himself one day, which leads to another point: Sam must certainly want children of his own, and that’s something Frodo will never be able to give him.  Why would he choose Frodo when he could have someone like Rosie Cotton?  Or Diamond Took?  Or any number of girls from the Shire who would be glad to marry him.

 _If I tell him and it doesn’t go well, I suppose I could always go back and prevent it from ever happening,_ he thinks to himself, jokingly, and only then does he realize he’s been twiddling the Ring between his fingers for the last several minutes.

What a ridiculous thought.

 _Is_ it ridiculous?  What if it really is possible to alter past events?

His finger moves closer…

 _Stop!_ he orders himself.   _Have you already forgotten everything Sam said?_

But Uncle Bilbo...he deserves a chance with Thorin.

_You’re such a hypocrite.  You can’t even take a chance with Sam._

_If I can help Bilbo in any small way, then I’ll know anything is possible.  Opening up to Sam shouldn’t be hard after that._

It’s a lie and he knows it.  Sam will or won’t reciprocate Frodo’s feelings regardless of whether Frodo is or isn’t adequately prepared to express them.  It’s simply easier to focus on someone else’s problem than try to face his own.

He slips the Ring on before his better judgment can stop him.

* * *

There are tables and benches spread out across a large outdoor area, with party lanterns strung up overhead.  Just one glance, and Frodo immediately knows where he is.

A crowd of hobbits are staring at the spot where he’s standing, their eyes and mouths wide open in a collective gasp.  Frodo sees many familiar faces in the crowd... _including his own!_

He catches a glimpse of a large banner that reads: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILBO BAGGINS”.  It’s Bilbo’s one hundred and eleventh birthday party!

Bilbo hops down to the ground and begins making his way up the hill to Bag End while the other hobbits run around in confusion.

His body feels different than before.  He’s slower, weaker.  No surprise, considering how much older he is than the last two times Frodo was in his skin.  He wasn’t expecting the Ring to bring him here, to this relatively recent event.  He assumed it would go in order and take him to the very next time Bilbo used the Ring after the escape from the Woodland Realm.  Instead it took him to the very _last_ time Bilbo used it, right before he left the Shire and left the Ring behind for Frodo.

Stupid Ring.  He wanted to find out more about what went on between Bilbo and Thorin, not revisit a party that’s still so fresh in his memory it might as well have happened yesterday.  So much for changing things for the better.

Then a thought comes to him: What happened _after_ Bilbo disappeared from the party?

He must have gone straight home, to Bag End...dropped the Ring on the floor...Gandalf was there…

Gandalf!

The idea that comes to Frodo in that moment gives him such a giddy rush that it causes Bilbo’s stomach muscles to spontaneously contract in an almost laugh, the same way they did in the Woodland Realm.  The involuntary action startles Bilbo and fortifies Frodo’s confidence in what he’s about to attempt.

_Bilbo?_

“Frodo?”  He whirls around, looking this way and that for his nephew.  “Where are you?  I thought you were back at the party.”  By now he’s almost all the way up the hill, far away from the crowd.

_No, Uncle.  It’s Frodo from the future.  I’m in your head.  Remember sixty years ago in the Woodland Realm?  Well, here I am again._

Bilbo keeps walking.   _I do remember.  This is very strange, Frodo._

_It truly is, and I think it’s about to get even stranger.  I want you to try to relax, Uncle Bilbo._

_Try to relax?  Why?_

Bilbo used the Ring to disappear in front of a large gathering of his neighbors and relatives as just a bit of fun, but now that feeling of mischievous frivolity has given way to apprehension, not knowing what his nephew visiting the inside of his head from the future is planning on doing.

_I can feel everything you’re feeling.  I see what you see, hear what you hear...now I want to see if I can control your body movements._

_What?  Frodo, no._

Bilbo’s entire right arm stiffens, tensing up from shoulder to wrist due to Frodo seizing control of it and Bilbo applying nearly equal resistance.  He tried to take the Ring off but Frodo stopped him.

_Please, Uncle, just relax.  I promise, I won’t do anything that you would disagree with._

He’s stopped and standing in front of the gate to Bag End, brows furrowed, teeth gritted.  Gradually he relents, deciding for the moment to trust his nephew, even if he doesn’t like the idea or the feeling of being controlled by someone else one bit.

Frodo propels Bilbo’s left foot forward.  Then his right.  Then left again.

Bilbo allows Frodo to move his hand and arm to push the gate open.  Next are the steps.

His movements are erratic, not yet being used to this older, heavier body.

He turns the brass knob in the middle of the round green door and enters their home.  Letting it swing shut and turning towards the parlor, they can already hear Gandalf before he comes into view.

“I suppose you think that was terribly clever.”

“G...Gan…”  Frodo attempts to use Bilbo’s mouth and voice.

“Bilbo?” the wizard says, staring down at the spot where he’s standing, still invisible.  “Are you all right?”

“Gan...dalf.  This...this is…”

“Bilbo, what’s wrong?  You’d better take that ring off.”

“Frodo.  This is Frodo.”

“Frodo?”

“I’m speaking...to you...from the future.”

An incredulous half-smile appears on Gandalf’s face, most likely due to the faint but noticeable slur in Bilbo’s speech.  Frodo finds it a bit comical himself.  Even after everything else, the very idea of hearing someone else’s voice where he’s used to hearing his own is a bit beyond belief.

“Gandalf...whatever you do...don’t trust Saruman.”

The look of amusement vanishes from Gandalf’s face.

“There will come a time in the future when you will turn to Saruman the White for help.  Don’t.  He won’t help you.  He’ll only betray you, and bad things will happen.”

Gandalf’s eyes are wide, his expression grave.

Before the wizard has a chance to respond, Frodo surrenders control and lets Bilbo take the Ring off.

* * *

The ring fell to the parlor floor, making a rather loud _clang_ sound against it.  Both Bilbo and Gandalf stared hard down at it, neither one saying a word or making a sound--other than the sound of panting coming from Bilbo, of course, who was clearly shaken by what he’d just experienced.

Finally Gandalf said, “I think you had better leave that ring behind.”

And so he did, but not before Gandalf managed to coax the truth out of him, about the purported Frodo of the future using the magic of the ring to communicate with him inside of his head, on that night as well as on the Quest for Erebor sixty years earlier.

Gandalf said nothing about it to Frodo--the one who was actually there, in the flesh--he merely instructed him to keep it secret and keep it safe before departing from the Shire himself, with the intent to discover the origin of this ring.

* * *

The revelation that the ring was in fact the One Ring of Power was made no less troubling by the knowledge of what Frodo would ostensibly soon be able to do with it.  Gandalf wasn’t sure what to believe; the warning about Saruman was something he could not disregard, but then again, how could he _not_ turn to Saruman, the head of his order, for aid in a matter such as this?

Much to his dismay, the warning turned out to be true.  Fortunately, he had come to Isengard prepared, having asked Radagast the Brown to accompany him, just in case.  His faithful friend remained hidden in the forest nearby, without Saruman knowing, so that Gandalf was not trapped atop the tower for very long before Radagast was able to rescue him.  After that he journeyed on to meet up with his hobbit friends at The Prancing Pony in Bree as planned.  Aragorn was there as well and joined them, as did Arwen, later, on their way to Rivendell.  The journey there was mostly uneventful.

Gandalf kept an eye on Frodo, watching for any telltale sign, any strange or unusual behavior.  At last, when they entered the gates of Rivendell, Frodo stopped and stood still, staring straight ahead and not blinking, nor uttering a word.

* * *

“Frodo?  Are you all right?”

Arwen, the elf maid, leans in close with a hand on his shoulder.

He feels like he’s just coming out of a stupor and hasn’t yet made it all the way.  It’s like waking up from a dream.  The very last thing he remembers is standing in the parlor of Bag End, using Bilbo’s voice to warn Gandalf about Saruman.

“Look, Mr. Frodo,” Sam says.  “We’re in Rivendell!”

He looks around.  So they are.  But why is Sam speaking as if they’ve only just arrived?  Haven’t they already been here for a while?

“Sam, didn’t I tell you not to call me Mr. Frodo?”

“You did?  When?”

Frodo shuts his eyes briefly, then opens them again.

Why is it daytime?  He was lying in bed at night when he put the Ring on.

The Ring...where is it?  He’s not holding it.

Reflexively he touches his neck, feeling for the chain, which isn’t there.  He checks his coat pocket, feels the Ring inside, then exhales.

He frowns.  “What day is this?”

He looks up.  Gandalf is standing in front of him, leaning on his staff with one hand on his hip, his lips parted in an open-mouthed smile.

“Well, now, Frodo Baggins, are you ready to own up to what you’ve done?”

* * *

There’s no wound.  It’s gone.  It was never there to begin with, which pleases him greatly.

And yet he still remembers being stabbed, even though it never happened in this new timeline he has created.

“You were right to want to protect yourself, Frodo,” Gandalf says, having taken him aside to speak with him privately while the others went ahead with Aragorn and Arwen to be introduced to Lord Elrond.  “But I must caution you not to use that ring again.  You may think you have a handle on its power, but in the end it will only answer to Sauron.  Even when at first it may seem that you have done well for yourself, there’s still no telling what unforeseen consequences may have been set into motion by your actions.”

Frodo hears his words and tries his best to heed them, but deep down he knows that it’s pointless to try to snuff out the spark of excitement he feels, now that he’s proved that it’s possible to not only go back in time to see the past, but also to change it.


End file.
